


Your Fault

by ChestnutWheelBarrow



Category: Bandstand - Oberacker/Oberacker & Taylor
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Gen, Guns, Implied/Referenced Suicide, I’m not really sure what else to tag, M/M, No Beta read we die like men, Oh boy where to start, Read with caution PLEASE, Suicidal Thoughts, Suicide, Suicide Attempt, This Is Why We Can't Have Nice Things, Welcome to another rendition of:, and I promise I’ll update some of my other shit soon, buckle up boys, but I know nothing about guns, might do a part two haven’t decided yet, read at your own risk I guess, yeah this is not a happy fic, ”I love this character yet I’m going to put them through hell and back”
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-19
Updated: 2021-02-19
Packaged: 2021-03-15 06:40:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,121
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29555061
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChestnutWheelBarrow/pseuds/ChestnutWheelBarrow
Summary: Resting the gun under his chin, Wayne took a moment to breathe. He wasn’t entirely sure what you were supposed to think, or even say, when you’re about to kill yourself. He wondered if he should write a note. Maybe a simple “Sorry I was a fuck-up” or “Hope the cleaning bill isn’t too much”.
Relationships: Nick Radel & Wayne Wright, Nick Radel/Wayne Wright, kinda though not really - Relationship
Kudos: 5





	Your Fault

  
  


Wayne’s hands shook as he turned the heavy weight in his hands. The gun seemed to fit perfectly in his grip, almost as if it was made just for him. He tossed it from hand to hand a few times before putting it down on the table. It was difficult to look away. The gun seemed to capture Wayne’s gaze, holding him prisoner as he battled with himself.

Nick had gone out for the evening, so the apartment was completely empty, the quiet and serenity wasn’t as welcome as it might have previously been. Instead of offering a chance for Wayne to clear his head, it now seemed to taunt him, making the pounding in his head worse.

Wayne briefly looked away from the gun, only to turn back to it and pick it up. The weapon offered some form of relief in a strange way. He considered taking it apart and cleaning it, only to shake his head, recounted the 3 previous times he’d done so in the last hour and a half. It would do no good to start a cycle that Wayne knew would be very hard to break. Following his better judgment, Wayne carefully slipped the gun back into its box, but didn’t put it back on the top shelf near the record collection, no, he just left it on the table and sat down on the couch.

Wayne closed his eyes for a moment, shifty regretting it when flashes of scorched faces clouded his vision. The images were soon accompanied by the loud screams of fellow comrades, the smell of the salty ocean and the sharp sting of an injury. Wayne gasped like a man deprived of air as his eyes snapped open. His hands flung to his right knee and he struggled to pull his trouser leg up in search of the pain, only to find nothing but the faint scars that lingered all over his body. Tears stung his eyes as Wayne leaned back against the couch. He was just so _tired_ . Tired of it all. The nightmares, the flashbacks, the need for everything to be in its set place because if it’s not, some bad will happen, he just knows it, it’s happened before because he was too incompetent, he should have checked, should have been more thorough, it never would have happened then, if only he had _checked._

Wayne had thought about just ending it all numerous times, after all, it was his fault there was a gas leak on his ship, he was the lieutenant, it was his job to make sure everything was working. He had killed many men, young and old, it was all his fault. He was a murderer. He shouldn’t even be here!  
  


_He shouldn’t even be here…_

Not long after he came back, stories of men just like him returning from the war, only to die by their own hand because they shouldn’t deal with it anymore. At first, he’d thought nothing more of those men, they had their reasons, but now, he understood. He always understood, but it never quite sunk in. Many men made it back from the war, only to realise it will never be _just like it was before._ “Before” is gone. Now there’s only pain and chaos and sorrow. The nation is tricking itself into thinking life could be a staple of what it used to. Everyone knew it, but none of them truly understood. 

So what was the point?

Wayne had to ask himself, what really is the point? He’d given up so much, only to be kicked down and spat on every time. The guys at NBC were a good example of that. Not a care in the world for their brothers, for all the men who lost their lives at war, and all the many after. So why was he still here? 

Would anyone really, truly care if he wasn’t?

An ex-wife who scrunched her nose at the thought of him, children who seemed to do everything to stay away from him, a roommate who was rude and aggressive- though he’d seen another side of Nick during their time together, it was a shock how different someone could be behind closed doors- and dream of a better life where he could make a difference, crushed just as soon as it had come. 

Wayne didn’t have a lot to tie him down, so why not take the easy route? Hadn’t he suffered enough through the hard one? Maybe it was time to call it quits. Enough suffering, enough lies, enough pain. 

Wayne rushed up from the couch and grabbed the gun from the back box on the table. The shine of the metal calls him, cold and uncaring. He picks it up, feeling the height in his hands, heavy and satisfying. It grounds him as he swaps it from one hand to another. Clears the fog from his head and now he knows what he has to do. 

Resting the gun under his chin, Wayne took a moment to breathe. He wasn’t entirely sure what you were supposed to think, or even say, when you’re about to kill yourself. He wondered if he should write a note. Maybe a simple “Sorry I was a fuck-up” or “Hope the cleaning bill isn’t too much”. 

Wayne wondered what Nick would do. After what he can only assume was a pleasant evening, probably full of heavy drinking at the Rio with Davy and Johnny, Nick would come home and scoff at the sight of Wayne. Maybe he’d think something along the lines of, _“Wonder what took you so long…”_ Only to then shrug and go to bed to sleep off some of the inevitable hangover that awaited him in the morning. 

Maybe the rest of the guys would be the same. Half relieved, half disappointed. He can picture Donny’s irritated face, Jimmy’s questioning look, Davy still half crooked from the night before, to hungover to really let the news sink in, Johnny’s confusion and Julia’s grimace. Maybe he was being too hard on his co-workers, they were vets too, they all had their own stories, so maybe they’d understand. 

Enough stalling. Wayne was finally going to give himself his much needed break and rid himself of all the tricks and games. He adjusted his grip of the handle and pushed the barrel deeper into his chin. He closed his eyes and sighed, saying a one last _“Goodbye and fuck you!”_ to the world. 

Wayne felt surprisingly calm for once. 

Finger tightening on the trigger, he braced himself for death’s sweet embrace, too caught up to hear the telltale sound of keys fumbling with a lock and the swinging of the door. 

_“No!”_


End file.
